Death at Hallows End by Leo Bruce Page A

seemed to think he was giving his hearers a surprise with each new sentence. “I could sometimes wish it was not so fine and large, but a mile nearer the village. I might be able to fill it then. As it is we’re lucky if we get a dozen to Mass on Sunday. But we get scores of people on weekdays coming to look at the architecture.”
    â€œYou’re High Church then?” said Carolus who had no idea the Rector would not care for the expression.
    â€œWe’re Catholic,” said the Rector smiling. “‘High Church’ is a dated term used by Protestants and such. Like to have a look around?”
    They entered the church together.
    â€œWe’re particularly proud of the font,” said the Rector, waving his hand towards it. He went on to speak informatively of ecclesiastical architecture, particularly as exhibited here.
    When Carolus could venture to turn the conversation, he asked if the brothers Neast were among the Rector’s congregation.
    â€œUnhappily we don’t see eye to eye on a number of points. They go over to Swanwick where my colleague Sumper provides them with eleven o’clock service and all that sort of thing. I understand they are very devout in their own way, but they heartily disapprove of what they call my popish practices. The east window …”
    Carolus had lost him again.
    â€œI believe you buried one of your parishioners last Saturday,” said Carolus when there was a momentary pause.
    â€œYes. Poor old Rudd. A dear old sinner who never came near us though he lived a few yards away. His wife is a little better. She does sometimes turn up for Evensong. I came out this afternoon to have a look at the grave, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Rudd wants to erect quite a mausoleum over it, I gather.”
    Carolus accompanied him towards the proposed site of this.
    â€œAre you serious about a mausoleum?” he asked innocently.
    â€œNo. But it’s rather a large affair of the old-fashioned slab kind which will look a bit out of place among more modest gravestones. See what you think.”
    They went into the churchyard and saw a fresh grave still earth-covered.
    â€œIf I had guessed what she wanted I’d have had Rudd buried elsewhere. I hate ostentation. But farm workers are highly paid nowadays and they can afford this sort of thing. I never expected it of Annie Rudd, though.”
    They reached the lych-gate.
    â€œMy Rectory is in the village. I know my wife would be delighted to give you a cup of tea if you would care to call. I’m going straight back there.”
    â€œThat’s awfully kind of you, padre. I’m afraid I can’t make it today, though. I have to see the Neasts.”
    â€œAh,” said the Rector inscrutably.
    â€œWhy is theirs called Monk’s Farm?” Carolus asked.
    â€œBecause it was the monks’ farm,” said the Rector with enthusiasm. “This was the church of a fair-sized abbey which was destroyed in Henry VIII’s reign. The farmland stretched over the very ground the Neasts occupy now. There was a beautiful old house, I believe, but the Neasts pulled it down when they came. Or so I’ve been told. It was before my time.”
    â€œThey have something pretty hideous in its place.”
    â€œIt’s not beautiful, is it? But I daresay more convenient. Well, I must leave you, I fear.”
    They bade each other goodbye and the Rector was soon cycling vigorously homeward.
    Carolus had no intention of calling on the Neasts at this point, but when the Rector was well out of sight, set out on foot for a cottage beyond the churchyard, which he presumed was Rudd’s.
    A knock brought a tall and powerful-looking elderly woman to the door where she stood arms akimbo.
    â€œMrs. Rudd?” he enquired.
    â€œYes.” She sounded dubious and peered at Carolus in the failing light.
    â€œI’m a friend of the man who disappeared from his car down the lane here. I am